“Pierre, monsieur?”—her mind was wandering now—they were the words she had spoken as she had sat beside him in the pew. “Ah, he was a good boy, Pierre—have you not heard of Pierre Letellier? And there was little Jean—little Jean—he went away, monsieur, and I—I do not know where—where he is—I do not know——-”
Raymond's voice was breaking, as he leaned forward toward her.
“He is with God, Mother Blondin. Jean—Jean has sent you a message. His last thoughts were of you—his mother.”
The old eyes flamed with a dying fire.
“Jean—my son! My little Jean—his—his mother.” A smile lighted up her face, and hovered on her lips; and her hand, clinging to Raymond's, tightened.
“Father—I——” And then her fingers slipped from their hold, and fell away.
The Bishop's arm was around Raymond's shoulders.
“Go now, my son—and you, my daughter,” he said gently. “It is very near the end, and the time is short.”
Raymond rose blindly from his knees. Mother Blondin was very still, and a pallor, gray and premonitory, had crept into her face. Her eyes were closed. He raised the thin hand, and touched it with his lips—and turned away.
And Valérie passed out of the room with him.